


Not Your Puzzle Piece

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Autistic Character, Autistic!Alexander Hamilton, Gen, Sensory Overload, Shutdowns, Vague warning for characters not looking after themselves, i hate myself for writing this, meltdowns, neurodivergent character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 04:37:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12951435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Proposition 1 - the author is autisticProposition 2 - the author is incapable of shutting upProposition 3 - Alexander Hamilton never shut upConclusion - Alexander Hamilton is autisticThis is a perfect example of a valid deductive argument that is entirely wrong according to my knowledge of the Founding FathersIn any case, modern autistic!Hamilton





	Not Your Puzzle Piece

**Author's Note:**

> So believe it or not, I hate the Founding Fathers but my friends introduced me to Hamilton last Christmas and being autistic, I don’t like things casually and got really into it. Of course, I went straight to this site and found out there were few Hamilton fics with autistic characters. This idea was born and I finally decided to add to that tag
> 
> I do not condone any of the Founding Fathers’ actions and am myself an anarchist and disagree with the entire idea upon which Hamilton is based on, a war for independence allowing the creation of a nation-state. 
> 
> With that in mind, pls comment if you liked this and point out any mistakes since this is unbetaed
> 
> Song that helped me write this is [Shattered by Dälek](https://youtu.be/YvQ3O-SGRXU)

There were many things people did not know about Alexander Hamilton. Amongst the unknown was his familial situation, his place of birth and indeed how a bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman grew up to become Senator Washington's right hand man.

What they did know, thanks to the man’s inability to shut the fuck up was that Hamilton was autistic and he loved it.

The session had ended for the day and Hamilton was waiting outside the Senate chambers, tablet unlocked with emails and PDFs ready for Washington's departure, the crowd of senators slowly dispersing out, standing around and making meaningless small talk with members of their own party. Hamilton hated this part, the constant buzz of voices clambering over each other to be heard, even outside of the Senate, but Washington needed him after these sessions, someone straight forward and direct to tell him what bullshit the senator had to deal with now. It had been two minutes now and Hamilton knew his boss was usually too busy to linger around chatting with Democrats and the moderate Republicans and it had still been _two fucking minutes_ and he could feel his heartbeat rise and his stomach sink and his breathing struggle -- Hamilton reached into his pocket to find a pen to chew on, anything to calm down and avoiding eye contact with everyone.

He spent most of his life bigging himself up, standing tall and moving his hands excitedly and stringing sentences superior to everyone else’s but there always was that part of him that hunched his shoulders, dropped his head and shut his mouth that let him become small and fade into the background. When you didn't have "senator" before your name, Capitol Hill didn't give a shit about you.

The cap on his pen was well chewed and Hamilton made a mental note to make a digital note to make a physical note that he needed to steal more pens from the office because he ran through both the cap and the ink far too quickly - you'd think the government could at least afford Biros. iPad still in hand, he stared at the screen for lack of something else to do and at least it wasn't another pair of eyes he had to pretend to look at. The resistance between his teeth was helping and so long as no one approached him--

Ah, shit.

The human personification of cramps: Virginian senator Thomas Jefferson.

"Well if it isn’t our favourite secretary, fresh off the boat. Y'know, standing outside ain't gonna get you into Senate, Mr Hamilton. Maybe have some economically viable policies and come talk to me next election cycle."

Firstly, he wasn't a secretary, he was an aide to Washington, and a damn good one for his age.

Secondly, he was naturalised. Hamilton had literally been in America since he was eighteen. (And between us, he was closer to thirty than he was to twenty.)

Thirdly, and as for talk of economically viable policies?

There's one thing you should know about Alexander Hamilton. He doesn't know the meaning of choosing one's battles.

iPad locked. Shoulders squared. Eyes focused above the bridge of Jefferson's nose.

"Yeah right. Because who cares if minimal statism fucks over the disadvantaged? It must be great not worryin' about whether you can afford your car or healthcare. Maybe if you looked past the 1%, you'd recognise that taxes, y'know, actually do shit more important than "oh no the government wants to take away my guns, how else am I gonna harass Planned Parenthood clinics or the minorities?"

Jefferson scoffed. "Fuckin' liberals," Virginian drawl pissing Hamilton off even more.

"Oh yeah, sorry I actually care about people being able to live out of poverty if it means Jefferson and his Republicans can't have a golfing break every month. Shit, I mean, he'd actually have to do his job!" Hamilton stepped closer to Jefferson, finger pointed, adrenaline rushing.

He loved this. The surge of blood, the energy resonating inside that he just had to get out, destroying someone's argument and gloating at their weak defences.

He would've continued, mouth running faster than Jefferson could even think if Washington hadn't emerged from the crowd, noting his aide slash constant headache openly arguing with one of the most powerful senators.

"Hamilton," he called out, a feral grin from his employee making his stress headache even worse, "to what pleasure do we owe Senator Jefferson's presence?"

Washington already knew about the antagonistic relationship between the two, a constant theme in various political blogs, the gun-toting agrarian Republican versus the loud mouth Democrat aide offering scathing commentary in his essays.

Before Jefferson could get there first, Hamilton opened his mouth: "we were simply discussing our favourite Virginian's support for your plans for single payer healthcare, weren't we?"

A snarled "fuck you" and Jefferson was gone, James Madison and Aaron Burr waiting for him down the corridor - Hamilton knew Burr a lifetime ago, back when he idolised the Princeton student.

Washington took the tablet from Hamilton's hands, "and what was that?"

No answer immediately came and Washington looked up to see the satisfied grin on Hamilton's face, the one he wore when he knew he won.

Hamilton was a genius, only twenty six but his mind was older, perfectly formed arguments pulled from thin air and few social skills to cushion the blow.

He _really_ needed to learn to choose his battles.

"You know I don't condone your spats," he said with a raised eyebrow.

If possible, the smile grew further and Hamilton's eyes started wandering, his hands moving freely.

"But where's the fun in that!"

 

* * *

 

When Hamilton got home, it was like a knot had been loosened, like the one at the top of his tie that he pulled off as soon as he could. His neighbour Eliza delivered leftovers that morning and he'd rather not face the wrath of Eliza and her expectations of empty Tupperware returned to her apartment so in it went into the microwave. He didn’t particularly like the whirring so whilst the heady concoction of meat and spices warmed up, Hamilton walked around his apartment, clicking his tongue so that it echoed from wall to wall.

He made himself eat, knowing that he too frequently forgets and then he would have to deal with another meeting with either his boss, his work friends or his neighbour and her sisters so he cleared his plate, rinsed it and left it to go sleep.

Well. Perhaps that wasn’t not the right term. Even in Nevis, he never slept well, too lightly for even the softest of winds to rouse him and even though he remembered Mulligan's orders to sleep, he couldn’t help but lie underneath his weighted blanket and think.

He never stopped _fucking_ thinking. Too many policy drafts and half planned debates and too many Republicans getting in his way.

Hamilton sighed. He wouldn’t sleep, barely four hours if he got lucky. He needed to move, to do, to write.

The tempting glow of his laptop was far too enticing and besides, it was better to be productive rather than doing nothing.

He clambered out of bed, blanket wrapped around him and dropped himself into his desk chair, opening a Google Doc.

" _Fuckin' liberals_ ," Jefferson spat.

Hamilton laughed to himself.

_Save document as "An Open Letter regarding Liberal Interventionism and Senator Jefferson's Fiscal Policy"_

 

* * *

 

Hamilton was at his work desk the next morning, rocking his chair back and forth whilst Politico loaded and he continued chewing on a pen, looking forward to the forthcoming analysis of his argument.

And damn. It was a good argument.

He doesn’t often sleep well and he mostly learnt how to adequately function on cat naps but sometimes his judgement slips - he rocked back just a tad too much and adrenaline spiked as he overbalanced - of course that would be solved if he just had a regular office chair with wheels but rocking felt _good_ in a world that often feels bad.

Hamilton accepted the inevitable fall and scrunched his eyes shut but his descent never came and he opened his eyes to see his boss and he couldn’t help but snort at Washington's face upside down. His hands bracketed Hamilton's head and his chair was pushed upright again.

Although Hamilton had worked for the senator pretty much since he graduated from Columbia with a degree in public affairs and economics (that, in itself, is a story: he published an essay on his blog criticising Republican persecution of undocumented migrants that caught the attention of his friend Lafayette, Washington's then right hand man, who, through speech at the speed of rapping, listed all of Hamilton's best qualities to his boss, resulting in a job offer), the one problem he still struggled with was that Washington was hard to read and Hamilton could barely decipher his mood without Laurens or Mulligan helping him out.

Upset, he decided, was Washington's mood.

Wait. Maybe not.

Angry? Disappointed? Sad? Approving?

Hamilton emulated the tone of voice Lafayette used whenever the senator had to deal with more bullshit: "yes, sir?", he asked turning around to look over Washington's shoulder.

"I read your essay." No expression, a mere statement that Hamilton couldn't deny.

"Sir?"

Washington moved to lean against his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Officially, I should be reprimanding you. Word says Jefferson'll respond to the accusation in session. What you did was reckless and could potentially ruin your career but..."

A deep sigh followed by Washington rubbing his face with his hand.

"As your boss and I hope, your friend, you did good, Hamilton."

Washington got up off the desk and hovered his hand over Hamilton's shoulder to which no protest came and his hand fell heavily.

"Well done, keep up the good work."

Just that one sentence and Hamilton felt himself grow warm and there was too much inside of him and all the happiness in him was glowing and too much to contain so instead he smiled, hands flapping and legs bouncing in some improvised rhythm that only he seemed to know. Washington leaves him to return to his private office and Hamilton?

Hamilton still felt like he was glowing.

 

* * *

 

Lunchtime rolled by and Lafayette sauntered past Hamilton's desk with a pointed look. Hamilton took off his headphones and that weird sensation in his stomach suddenly made far more sense when he noticed the near-constant rumbling and gurgling of his apparently empty stomach. Upon looking above his computer, he saw that practically the entire floor is deserted and Washington emerged from his private office, bemused at the staring contest his assistants seemed to be having if they didn’t know that Hamilton wasn’t actually looking at Lafayette in the eye.

Hamilton eventually conceded and clicked on "hibernate" on his computer, shoving all his various pens and half-drafted essays into his backpack before he stood in front of Washington.

"Permission to take my lunch break?"

"Permission granted. Back at your desk in one hour." Washington ordered. Some might say he sounded like a general talking to his subordinate but the strict parameters helped him focus - he had a purpose and a timescale and he could work with it.

Hamilton walked past the lifts, in case someone else happened to share it with him and he would have to avoid awkward small talk, and instead took the stairs and beeped his work ID to get out of the building.

If there's one thing he hated about working in politics, it was being in the centre of everything, including Washington D.C and the usual hustle and bustle magnified by a late lunchtime crowd. Hamilton could cope with it though and he placed his headphones on and a pen in his mouth and he was ready to walk to his favourite sandwich shop two blocks down from Washington's office.

The one good thing about big cities was that one could merge into the crowd. You were a nobody and no one would look you in the eye. One and a half songs later however, Hamilton opened the door to the sandwich shop and he knew immediately that this was a bad idea and really, he should have stayed in bed this morning.

Upon opening the door, he was immediately overwhelmed by the stench of overpowering artificial lemon scented cleaner and it made his eyes water, a headache already brewing. Even though it was the end of the lunch rush, it was still busier than usual. It was hard to hear other people when he had his headphones on so Hamilton slid them around his neck and he winced, the radio turned up to compensate for the loud chatter that invaded his ears.

Hamilton stood stock still, trying to process all the information assaulting him and he didn’t notice someone trying to walk out of the shop until his shoulder was collided with and some murmured insult was thrown in Hamilton's direction.

It knocked him out of his stupor and he walked closer to the counter, the queue slowly dropping through, a crowd of professionals with paninis in hand. There were hardly any seats in the corners Hamilton liked to plant himself and though Washington said an hour for lunch, his boss would probably allow him to eat at his desk.

He had eaten at this place for as long as he's worked for Washington and the staff there knew the order by heart for the suit with permanent bags under his eyes.

"No ham and Swiss today, sorry," Hamilton was told.

And all the thoughts that kept him up at night were silenced by a single deafening thought, words running into each other _get out-get out-GET OUT-it isn't safe-there's too much-there's too much-GET OUT_ until it felt like his brain was a radio with no signal, overwhelming white noise replaced by a sudden silence.

Hamilton ran out of the store unthinkingly, backpack jumping up and down as he somehow shoved his way through the crowd on the street, headphones forgotten around his neck. His hands fumbled for the ID card on his lanyard but it scanned and beeped affirmatively and he was double stepping up the staircase, most of the office still at lunch. Hamilton's breathing was rushed and unsteady, not quite hyperventilating but enough for fight or flight to kick in and for once, he chose flight.

Being an aide, and one of many, he didn’t have his own office, but he remembered looking at the timetable for the day and he knew that the meeting room was empty for the day. The rational part of his brain recognised that having a shutdown in front of his colleagues and boss was not a good idea but he ignored it as he shoved the door open, Laurens, Mulligan and Lafayette abruptly ending their own conversations when they noticed their hurricane of a friend hide himself in a room.

Hamilton's legs pretty much collapsed underneath him and his back slid down the door, arms curled around his knees and he rocked himself back and forth.

His mind still screamed that it wasn’t not safe but the rational part stood its ground and argued that that was where he would be the safest. Hamilton's hands weren’t shaking so bad anymore and he dug around in his jacket pocket for a pen and continued chewing on it.

It had been a couple of minutes of rocking and chewing before murmurs were heard from the other side of the door.

"Alexander?" Hamilton heard Laurens ask quietly. "Can you talk?"

There were notebooks in the meeting room and Hamilton ripped a page out - Washington could dock his wage if he really wanted to.

 _Not really_ , he wrote in his scrawl and slid under the door.

"That's perfectly fine, Hamilton. Perhaps we can call Eliza for you?" Lafayette asked as he pushed the piece of paper back into the meeting room.

Eliza made sense. Eliza knew what to do when Hamilton got like this.

_Yes please_

He noticed the soft unlocking of an iPhone before Mulligan spoke.

"Open the door whenever you want. But you gotta hear about how the General smacked Jefferson down. We all know how calm he is but man, Washington swore him out. Jefferson and his Republicans came here talkin' shit about that "loudmouth prick" and of course we all stayed at our desks listening to him and Jefferson must have said something and Washington just shouted, "are these the men with which I am meant to represent America?" Can you believe it?! Anyway you didn't miss much apart from that and then..."

Hamilton was grateful for his friends. They kept talking about work and politics and everything he cared about until he could hear practical high heels stride across muffled carpet.

"Angelica, hi, listen you gotta take over my cases today, I know you're very busy, I know your work's important but I promise you, I will buy you all the books by Paine you ever want, okay? Get Peggy if you have to. Thanks. Gentlemen?"

"Ma'am," said in sync by Hamilton's friends as Eliza stood among them, the _click_ of her phone locking audible.

"How is he?" Eliza asked.

Clothes made noise as the trio shrugged and Hamilton decided to assist them and slid the paper back to them.

_They didn't have my sandwich_

Other friends would perhaps laugh, tell him to get something else but they didn’t and Hamilton decided to open the door, still sat on the floor.

He couldn’t look at any of them in the eye, his arms held out for a hug.

Hamilton received a group hug for all four of them, the pressure a welcome distraction from his trapped voice and the voice in his mind screaming about safety finally shut up. He looked up when a shadow emerged over their little gathering, his friends still holding onto him.

At least he could recognise the concern on Washington's face.

"You okay, son?" Hamilton didn’t usually appreciate the nickname but he let it slide, simply nodding.

"Anything I can do?"

And like that, his empty mind started filling up with thoughts and half-composed sentences.

He stood up and put a finger out to his friends and boss and ran to his desk, booting up his computer and shoving his headphones onto his ears.

Eliza, Laurens, Lafayette, Mulligan and Washington all shared a look, watching their hardworking neighbour, colleague and employee as he started frantically typing, knowing that he would bounce back.

There's nothing they could change and nothing they would ever want to change about Alexander Hamilton and all his quirks.

 

* * *

 

It was the end of the working day and Washington remembered how Hamilton was escorted home by his work friends after Eliza left to return to her legal cases. He was turning off the remaining lights on the floor when he noticed a pile of freshly printed documents on Hamilton's desk and smiled to himself when he saw what was at the top.

_Recommendations to the office of Senator Washington for Adults on the Autistic Spectrum._

**Author's Note:**

> “Ham and Swiss sandwich” coming from this vide


End file.
